One Wicked Night. Noelle Mack
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payment through an intermediary.”
“What is his name?”
“The intermediary? He is called Vendela, I think—”
“Not him, her husband.”
“Oh—”
I barely heard my talkative friend say her husband’s name because Xavi had turned to look at me at last. Quinn chattered on, but she spoke not a word, observing me calmly with large dark eyes. Her lustrous black hair was swept up in a thick coil that left the nape of her neck adorned with a curl or two that I suddenly, passionately, longed to kiss. I had never seen so beautiful a woman, yet even a passing flirtation with this one was entirely out of the question.
Even if her husband’s name had barely registered—I did know I had never met the man—Don Diego’s position at court had. Although I did not spend time there, my own interests were at stake in those important circles, having to do with the manufacture of munitions—but I will say no more on that subject. My business affairs are recorded elsewhere and those papers will not be burnt. Suffice it to say that my plans were likely to make me a wealthy man. Or so I hoped. Like many a nobleman, I had inherited a distinguished title but little more.
I considered the matter for a moment, while I wondered where she lived. Dallying with the wives of powerful men was best done at some distance from London if it was to be done at all. Most of us took our pleasure with women who were not received in polite society in any case.
But someone like Lady X would be welcomed in the highest circles. Her looks alone ensured that she would be a sought-after guest at elegant soirees and balls, and surely she was about to burst upon the social scene. Being the wife of Don Diego might keep predatory males at a respectable distance, if he was as passionate and vengeful as Spaniards were reputed to be. But what had Quinn just called him? A disgusting old goat? I felt pity for her.
Gazing at Xaviera Innocencia, drinking her in, it occurred to me then that even had she not been married, she was very different from the brave little butterflies of London who flitted from one dance partner to the next, their fragile wings growing more tattered with each season, until at last they vanished into the brothels or married some poor but dashing officer past his prime as well.
She seemed to possess an inner strength that puzzled me not a little. I noted her air of reserve, attributing it to her youth and the strictures of the convent in which she had undoubtedly been shut away for her schooling, in the custom of her country. Married young, I mused, she’d had no time to invite the admiration of men.
That she was accompanied by a young and pretty ladies’ maid and not a hideous duenna of mature years was also something that puzzled me. Virtuous Spanish ladies were well-guarded. The modicum of freedom that we Englishmen permitted our women, single or married, was not her lot in life. But the girl I had seen on my way in seemed too naïve for the task.
Lady X might easily give a chit like that the slip. Don Diego’s beautiful wife had a sensual look in her eyes that mesmerized me. Her dark gaze held mine until Quinn took me by the arm and broke the spell.
Never one to stand on ceremony, he introduced me, talking loudly as if that would help her understand. She listened to him with polite indifference and looked me over so thoroughly that I grew erect and was forced to hold my hat over the front of my breeches so as not to give offense.
A faint, very faint, smile appeared on her curving lips.
I straightened my spine and fought to compose myself as she turned her face away, resuming her study of the paintings on the wall. Miss Reynaud came and went in silence, taking Quinn’s preliminary drawings for the portrait with her. She seldom spoke. In fact, she was so nondescript that she seemed to possess the power of invisibility, a standing joke of Quinn’s when the copyist was out of earshot.
To keep from staring at Lady X, I too studied the portraits of the earl and his countess, hoping to dampen the amorous fire within me. They had once loved each other wildly, had been so ardent, in fact, that they seldom came down to dinner at country house parties and were sometimes seen disporting themselves in the shrubbery. But, done in oils for posterity, their bland countenances betrayed nothing of their passionate past or their famously unpleasant quarrels in the present.
All love affairs were variations on that theme, I told myself, stealing another long look at Lady X. She ignored my conversation with Quinn, which was just as well. My few words to him were neither witty nor wise, addled as I was by her unexpected presence.
Perhaps Quinn understood. Waving a brush whose bristles were stiff and prickly with dried paint, he told her to step down and walk about to keep from tiring. Inwardly I gasped as she rose from her seat and arranged the folds of her gown about herself. The stuff of which it was made was not sheer, but neither was it impervious to the strong light that flooded the room. Her body was outlined beneath it, curving and strong. My hands tingled, alive with my instantaneous desire to caress her all over and give her the ultimate pleasure…I nearly dropped my hat.
Quinn, damn him, offered at that moment to take it and my coat, saying he would send his lad out for some tea for the lady and heartier refreshments for me, if I wished. I hesitated, then said yes. If I were to see the Lady X again, it was likely to be in circumstances that were far less intimate and easy. The idea of bowing and scraping to her and her distinguished husband at a ball, observing the necessary courtesies and making awkward conversation, was not at all to my liking.
By great good fortune, I had happened to meet her here first. No one but my friend Quinn could observe what I said and did—well, there was her maid, but I supposed the girl could be bribed and did not like her Spanish master in any case.
And perhaps the apprentice could be bribed as well to take the maid for a walk in the park—and if Quinn should happen to go out for ale and cheese at the pub on the corner, the Lady X and I might contrive to—I reminded myself that she spoke very little English.
As it happened, matters proceeded in precisely that way, and I soon found out that Xavi knew far more than she let on…
A month later, we became lovers, meeting first at Quinn’s studio by his invitation but when he was out. He was pursuing an affair of his own with a badly behaved duchess who had sat for her portrait and taken a fancy to him. She, a former artist’s model who flung off her clothes at the slightest opportunity, did not seem to mind the smell of turpentine and the splashes of paint everywhere.
But Xaviera did, expressing her displeasure in excellent if charmingly accented English. The nuns—I write the word with a smile—had taught her well, or so she said. All to the good, as I spoke no Spanish. As I wished only to please her in every way, I made a few discreet inquiries and another friend offered the use of his house in town, an anonymous three-story building on a quiet street. He asked no questions before providing me with a double set of keys, understanding without my saying so that my request must remain a private matter and no more was said. Xaviera assured me that her husband was preoccupied with intrigues of his own, both political and amorous. He would never know. I chose to believe her.
Once she had proposed that I write a book just for her—the small volume that I mentioned—we devised our method of exchanging it quickly enough. Xavi liked to read such tales at her leisure, preferring those I penned to all others. Thus she was always prepared for me, fully aroused, rosy with lust and eager for my caresses when at last I could steal away to the secluded house to which we had the keys. The place was impeccably furnished but otherwise empty, as my friend never came there, preferring his mistress’s apartments in Soho.
From time to time, we made solo visits, heading straight for the locked cabinet in the library where we would leave sealed letters for each other, billets-doux with practical postscripts that set the times of our meetings in advance. The arrangement required no assistance from servants who might or might not be trustworthy, and it proved to be mutually—and highly—satisfying.
As did the tales of lust and love that slowly filled the pages of the little book. As the months went on, I penned many stories for her private amusement, some too long to fit in the book as they were written. Once edited, they were added, but I